anks bwother!
by Red Hot Holly Berries
Summary: Scotland is pissed. He's trying to take care of his little brother, but that little ingrate shrinks away from him! What did he do to earn such an ungrateful distrust? He wonders, but the answer is painfully simple: "Ev'rythin'" fluffy thing, no incest


**'anks bwother**

Scotland rubs his eyes sleepily, not sure about what the hell has just woken him up, but his mind is too fogged with sleep to deeply ponder about it.  
He yawns, motionless in his bed - and as he listens to the silence of his room the quiet sound of muffled sobs reaches his ears, answering his unspoken question.  
Scotland sighs, threading a hand through his messy red hair in a tired fashion, trying to will his eyes to _stay the fuck open_.  
It's usually up to Wales to deal with little England when he wakes up crying in the middle of the night, but tonight both him and Ireland are not home, so he's technically in charge of the brat.  
Needless to say, the thought doesn't thrill him very much.  
For a moment he entertains the idea to leave him be, but the thought of what mother-hen Wales would do to him if he discovered that he has ignored England's distress makes him move, although rather half-heartedly.  
Scotland tosses the covers aside, untangling himself from the sheets and leaving his warm bed with regret - muttering a string of curses when he's welcomed by the cold stone floor under his bare feet.  
He shivers, still not completely awake, and without lighting any candle he stumbles out of his room and into the one just opposite to his.  
The sound of footsteps causes a little blond head to peep out from the bundle of sheets in the centre of the bed to look at the newcomer, but as soon as little England notices that the one approaching him with a stern expression is not Wales, the relief in his shiny green eyes fades away to leave place to fear.  
"I'm shorry! I didn't wanta wake 'u! I'm shorry!" the child cries with a high-pitched voice, curling up in a trembling ball.  
Scotland is a bit dumbfounded by the other's scared reaction, and even more so when the little one flinches away and hides under the covers - leaving only a mop of ruffled blond hair peeking out - as soon as Scotland reaches out his hand to... he doesn't even know what to, maybe to pat the little one on the head like he'd do with one of his hounds. He doesn't know himself, really.  
Scotland snorts, furrowing his brow, positively annoyed.  
He doesn't understand: he's there, trying to take care of the little burger, when he'd rather still be in his warm, cozy bed, but what does that little ingrate do? He shrinks away! He should instead be grateful Scotland hasn't already hit him for waking him up in the middle of the bloody night!  
But then. It looks like England is recoiling from his touch because he _actually_ expects Scotland to hit him.  
Blasted Hell, what did he do to find himself at the receiving end of such an ungrateful distrust?  
Scotland lets out an irked grunt, for the very first time wondering about it - and the answer is painfully simple, revealing itself with the overbearingness of a flash of lightening.  
"Ev'rythin'," Scotland mutters to himself, suddenly feeling a bitter taste in his mouth.  
He has never paid much attention to his youngest brother, but it doesn't matter all that much, does it? It's not like he's _supposed to_, right?  
_'Even if I sometimes do acknowledge his presence,' _comes the traitorous thought.  
When he makes fun of him, laughing of the brat's hateful stare filled with helpless spite.  
Or when he trips him just for the sake of it.  
Or when he pushes him roughly out of his way even if there's no need.  
Or when he smacks him on the head just because he's taller.  
Or when he hides and ruins his toys just because still having them at his age 'makes him a pussy'.  
"Why are ye cryin'?" Scotland asks with his 'best' soft voice as he sits on the edge of the bed. Sounds like he has to work on that.  
A bit shocked that the other isn't assuming he has wetted the bed and mocking him for it, England looks up at him warily - and Scotland silently wonders how could he have ignored for so long the fact that those eyes are the very same green of his own, of all the Kirklands'.  
_'Have I ever had such eyes? Such an expression?'_ the spontaneous question is.  
Has he ever cried so much that his eyes were that red and puffy? Has he ever had that look, as if... He doesn't even know what _is_ that look in his little brother's eyes, but it's a mix of confused sadness, unsoothed fear of dark, loneliness, that makes his skin crawl.  
Has he ever had that look? _'No,'_ he thinks. His mother would have never let him cry so long to let him have it. She has been a good mother. A caring mother. A mother that England can barely remember, if at all.  
Scotland remembers he used to take his mother's love and presence for granted when he was England's age - and this thought, somehow, makes his heart clench.  
"I- I 'ad a nightma'," the child replies, sobbing mortified but trying his hardest to stop, only partly managing in his feat.  
To the older, he looks all in all like a tiny, helpless, fluffy rabbit. And Scotland feels like the fox trying to lure it out of its burrow.  
"Ah. And wha'... Wha' does Wales us'lly do when ye 'ave nightmares?" Scotland asks awkwardly, without trying to reach for him - and at the end his patience pays out when England finally disentangles out of his cocoon of sheets, keeping an eye on him.  
"He- he takes me t' sleep wit' 'im," the little one answers hesitantly with a hoarse voice as hiccups and tears slowly stop, leaving behind a sore throat and an aching head.  
Seeing him trying to dry his cheeks with the sleeves of his over-sized nightgown, Scotland - following some sort of instinct he wasn't aware he has - scoops England up in his arms like the child he is, holding him tightly to his chest.  
"Let's go th'n," he says, stroking his cheek and drying his tears with a rough thumb, marvelling at the softness of his baby brother's skin under his calloused hands, and strides back to his own room without waiting for a reply.  
Before either of them can realize what has happened, Scotland is once again under his still-warm covers, lying on his side with a tiny England cuddled against him and nuzzling his chest, completely forgetful of all the times the elder pushed him away in the past. Maybe there is still hope.  
"...'anks bwother..." the kid mumbles, yawning and closing his eyes - partly because of sleepiness, partly because he doesn't dare to look the older one in the eye.  
Not expecting that, Scotland blinks in surprise, and with some awkwardness he puts his arms around his little brother's frame, pulling him closer to the heat of his body.  
And Scotland's last thought as he slips into Morpheus' arms, feeling England's warm, steadying breath on his neck is one he'll promptly deny tomorrow morning: _'Maybe 's not tha' bad.'_

* * *

_Dedicated t__o all the big siblings who sooner or later come to understand that blood's thicker than water. Dedicated to the big brother I've always wanted but never had. Dedicated to me and my soon-to-be-born little sister/brother. Dedicated to my hope to be up to this duty. May they understand that I'll always try to be their family._


End file.
